


Anathema

by Marie_L



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Emotional Constipation, F/F, Gay Michael Burnham, Pre-Series, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 12:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13054302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_L/pseuds/Marie_L
Summary: Burnham is uncomfortable with life on the Shenzhou, and Captain Georgiou proposes a ritual to help her relax.





	Anathema

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elospock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elospock/gifts).



Lieutenant Michael Burnham, newly ranked xenoanthropologist aboard the U.S.S. Shenzhou, took a cleansing breath and attempted to refocus her thoughts. Such a difficult first month, and she couldn’t identify why. Humans were more troublesome than she anticipated, despite an entire ship’s database of Earth cultural attributes embedded in her head. Her own species was another alien in many ways, at once boringly predictable and grating in its unrefinement.

But that was a self-delusion. Michael knew she was the alien, always had been. She took another slow breath, and refined her mind on the candle in front of her, willing such emotional deficiencies such as _boredom_ and _irritation_ into the flame.

The job itself was not the problem. It was stimulating, truth be told, an enriching array of species new to the Federation and old, off ship on shimmering novel planets and also aboard the Shenzhou. The crew’s nonhumans, such as fellow Lieutenant and Science Officer Saru, she immediately gravitated towards, even as Burnham recognized she was putting them off with her Vulcan know-it-all attitude. The humans had no idea what to make of her, this odd hybrid who clung to deduction like an archaic religion, one which didn’t believe in so much as smiling.

Except for Captain Georgiou.

The Captain was magnetic, and that too gave Burnham pause. Terrified her, if she was reading her own nascent emotions correctly. Michael knew of military obedience, of course. How else can a mind hone itself if not molded on the hard diamond quality of their superiors? And contrary to appearances, she knew of sexual attraction, although that was regarded as another human flaw to be etched out of her for her own good. Neither were the facts of her Captain being a woman or her superior officer factors in her fear either. The female part had been duly noted in her routine psychological examination at puberty. And on Vulcan, while sexual response was strictly controlled, deep mentor-student intellectual relationships were common and encouraged. Perhaps that was all Captain Georgiou had in mind when she invited Burnham for the ritual.

_It is designed to center oneself, with the aid of another. You_ _’ll have complete freedom to back out at any time._

_I said yes, Captain._

Burnham’s alarm chimed in soft tones, at the exact moment her internal clock told her it would. The hour was 22:27. It would take only fifty seconds to walk down the hall to her Captain’s quarters, giving her an additional two minutes ten seconds to bring herself out of the meditating fugue state. Naturally she could divert her attention much more quickly in an emergency, but in this case it assisted her self-control to slowly float, pulling back into jaded reality.

At 22:29, Burnham pulled herself up off her knees and walked down the corridor.

The Captain greeted her with a warm smile. Burnham couldn’t decide if the pleasantry was professional courtesy or not. “Michael. Come in. Sit, please.”

“Thank you, Captain, I am honored.” She strode in through the open-armed beckoning, eyes up, waiting to absorb whatever lessons the Captain chose to impart. Georgiou had set up some kind of tea service on a table in her greeting area. The cups were Auralian, but the scent emanating off the liquid was some kind of Earth tea. Burnham privately chided herself that she couldn’t identify the exact kind, but kept her face in its normal blank neutrality as she lowered herself on the sofa.

“How do we start, Captain?” Burnham asked. Affectless. She wasn’t going to be the one to slip first.

The Captain seemed to regard her for a second, then sat herself in a soft, relaxed chair next Burnham’s end of the couch, her tea place-setting ninety degrees from Burnham’s own. “I think the real question is, what am I going to do for you, Michael. May I call you Michael?”

Anyone else and Burnham would have responded with a curt _I prefer Lieutenant Burnham._ But with the Captain, she found herself saying, “I… am fine with whatever you prefer, Captain.”

Georgiou emitted a small sigh, which Burnham could not interpret. “Sometimes it seems we start over at the beginning every time, Lieutenant. My purpose today is only to help you, in a relaxed setting. We already agreed this was a laudable goal, did we not?”

_It is designed to comfort, to meet the psychological needs of a human. Mind medicine. Would you like to try?_

_Perhaps, Captain._

A small amount of relief flooded Burnham’s system. Yet again, she was impressed with Georgiou’s ability to cut through and manage scenarios in a respectful manner, despite Burnham’s own social awkwardness. “Yes, sir.”

Georgiou picked up the tall carafe and poured the hot liquid into Burnham’s cup first. _Camellia sinensis_ leaves, fermented to varying degrees, her mind supplied. At least she hoped that was all that was in it. The heat caused the pottery to gleam blue.

“Go on, take a sip, Michael.” Then, as if reading her mind again, Georgiou added, “Don’t worry, there’s nothing in there but tea, mint and sugar. A warm liquid is a comfort, no?”

“I don’t know, Captain.”

“Philippa, Michael. Out there you can ‘Captain’ me all you want, and should, but in here I am not giving orders.”

Burnham sipped from the oval cup. The sweetness struck her, cloying like a forgotten medicine from her childhood, but then it did sooth down the throat. “I know, uh, Philippa. I’m ready.” It was like being a novitiate again, and she shoved down the momentary terror with a mental flick.

“Good. Remove your shirt. Keep the underclothes on.”

Burnham did so in a single fluid motion, without reaction. The Captain mimicked the motion, leaving bare her arms and neck. Her face gleamed with both professional serenity and warmth, beautifully lined with attractive crinkles that betrayed her age. She could ask medical to rederm the laugh lines, but Burnham loved the fact that the Captain chose not to, instead allowing the course of time to naturally inscribe her face.

“Sit on the floor, across from me please,” Georgiou said. She motioned to a rug on the floor. It was far from a meditation mat, instead appearing to be Rigellian microfiber, deep and fluffy. Burnham couldn’t help placing a palm down on the fabric as she assuming a meditation pose, and luxuriated in its creamy texture.

“Palms out to start. Just the hands.”

The simple touch flooded Burnham with unrecognizable relief, as if a pent up, unnoticed supply of adrenaline was bleeding out. With one notable emergency exception from Sarek, only her foster mother Amanda had ever touched her in any manner resembling this, skin to skin. In general Vulcans never touched, not even parents to their children over a certain age. It was a stricture related to their latent telepathic powers, an unbreachable violation except under rare extraordinary circumstances. And here, Michael Burnham was volunteering to submit to the taboo.

“Do you find human emotions difficult, Michael? An inconvenient obstacle to be overcome?” Georgiou asked softly, without wavering her hands.

“I find them… irrelevant, Captain.” They were soft and warm and the edges of her fingers trembled.

“Humans — actually, most species members of the Federation — believe that empathy is a necessary part of a functioning crew,” Georgiou said. “Is that an emotion forbidden by the Vulcan philosophy?”

“I wouldn’t classify that strictly as an ‘emotion’, Captain. Vulcans do believe in many positive attributes — honor, compassion, loyalty, appreciation. We — they — simply believe it is more valuable to focus the mind on reason than abstract feelings.”

“Close your eyes, please,” Georgiou murmured. She ran her fingertips down Burnham’s palm, down to her wrists, and followed them up the undersides of her arms, until they were both clasping the length of them up almost to the shoulders.

Michael felt exposed, as if the intimacy was too much to bear. The discomfort built, causing almost a panic in her chest. The Captain must have sensed her discomfort, for abruptly she let go of Michael’s arms.

“Breathe, Michael,” she said, and again held out her palms. This time she merely hovered them in front of Michael’s, close enough that the heat connected them, but no contact was made. Michael let out a long exhale enough to empty the lungs, and refocused her laser brain to a point after the embarrassing loss of control.

“Back again?” Philippa asked after a long pause. Her voice was barely above a mumble. Soothing. Pacifying. Sedating.

“The ritual is designed to rectify a broken human mind,” she said. “Isn’t that right, Philippa?”

“You are hardly broken,” her Captain replied. “There’s always an adjustment to any new environment. And this ship is very new to you, isn’t it?”

“The ship is fine. The people … require adjustment.”

“Adjustment. A fine word.”

She offered her hands again, and Burnham responded in kind, hovering with only millimeters separating the two of them. Then Georgiou closed the gap, barely grazing Burnham’s sensitive skin. As unthreatening as humanly possible, and still Burnham wanted to get up and flee.

“Captain, I have to tell you something,” Burnham suddenly blurted. Her mind didn’t even forewarn her of the words; they just tumbled out like a brook overflowing its banks. Without waiting for a reply, she continued, “This isn’t a good idea. I have inappropriate feelings for a superior officer.”

“Do you want to stop?” Georgiou asked.

 _Yes,_ was Burnham’s first thought. “No,” was the truth she said.

“Consider pushing through for a moment. I know you have experience shoving down your emotions, Michael. But try to just feel, without submerging it. If that’s too much, just focus on your fingers. Like a mediation, with a part of your body as a focal point.”

“Yes, Cap…Philippa.”

She remembered this sort of mediation now, taught to very young children on Vulcan. The body scan, the first step to bodily awareness and self-control. Once framed as a meditative ritual, she had no trouble redirecting her mind to the task. She wasn’t outraged at being subjected to such an elementary technique, because Burnham recognized that emotionally, sexually, she was at the beginning of her journey. Not bad for the Captain of a Starfleet vessel.

“Palms now,” Georgiou said, and at the same time rested her own palms against Burnham’s. She let herself enjoy the contact, before a surge of guilt rose up. That too she let float, let the reaction, watching it almost as an observer outside herself.

“Moving to wrists now.”

This time Georgiou let go of the upper portion on the hand, and dragged the tops of her fingers down to Burnham’s bent wrists. Michael drew in a sharp breath as she realized how much she wanted this, and so much more, it was enough to make one crumble and scream. Again just the acknowledgment of her arousal was almost too much to bear, and she struggled to regain her focus on the singular point of contact.

“How are you doing?” Philippa asked. The question itself was distracting, breaking Michael’s concentration, but it also relieved the tension.

“I’m…” She found it difficult to speak. “I’m fine, Captain.”

“Try again, Michael.”

“I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I want to continue.”

“Better. But I think that’s enough for today.”

Relief mixed with disappointment and longing, as Georgiou removed her hands. Burnham opened her eyes, and found the Captain had neatly folded them in her lap.

“Will that be all for today?” Burnham managed to say, as the sensations faded and she too lowered her arms.

“I don;t want to push too much. But I do want you to practice for tomorrow.”

“To…tomorrow, Captain?”

“22:30 tomorrow, to be precise. If you wish to go a little further. Practice with yourself, touching your hands together and switched points on either hand as the focal point. I assume you have no problem with homework, Michael?”

“No, sir.”

“No orders, Lieutenant. I thought I made that clear. Beyond the threshold of this door, there is only Michael and Philippa.”

Michael stood up awkwardly to leave, then paused and turned. _May as well go full throttle,_ she thought. There was no point in holding back now.

“Captain, did you note what I said earlier?” she asked.

Philippa stood up, face to face, although she was the shorter of the two by far. She reached out towards Michael’s cheek but didn’t make contact, instead hovering as they had just done with their fingers. Michael’s face flushed, and this time she did struggle with the urge to lean into it and bridge the tiny gap. Instead she let her breath do the speaking for her.

“I did,” Georgiou said softly. “This place can be your sanctuary is you let it, Michael. But you are not ready for that. Not yet. Right now, just to let feelings come and go is enough.”

Her Captain skimmed the edge of her jawbone for an instant while withdrawing her hand, and Michael felt it. Let the perception go, and knew indeed it was enough.

  


  


  


  


  


  



End file.
